6/19/11

My Father.

About the time I hit Junior High, I had convinced myself that my father loved my older sister more than he loved me.

It was after a particularly rough Saturday - my mother and siblings were out and Dad seemed a bit high strung (the washer had probably broken for the umpteenth time). I was oblivious, as most eleven year olds are, and after my chores had been completed, I usually spent my Saturdays perfecting my craft: poetry. I was drama to the max.

This afternoon, with my father at work in the basement, it was my duty to answer the phone. And I neglected this duty for one particularly important phone call - then prompting my father's frustration and some comment about my incompetence. Which, in turn, sent me storming/sobbing to my room, where I slammed the door and thought something like, "Oooo, you just WAIT until Mom comes home and I tell her what you said." That never really worked out, anyway. They were usually on the same team.

And I begin with this anecdote not to say that I have an insensitive father, but that, at the time, I had no real concept of how alike we truly are. Faults and all, I am very similar to this impatient yet unconditionally loving man who (bless his soul) has endured my drama for 22 years.

I'm proud to say that I've inherited his brown eyes, thick hair and Norwegian bone structure. I'm glad I share his affinity for antiques, long drives in the country, and Diet Coke. That I have the same sense of humor, the same attention to detail, the same realistic perspective, the same appreciation for family and hard work and time spent outside. I love the things about myself that are an imprint of this well-loved man.

I mean, wouldn't you be proud to call these people your parents?

But more than this, I'm proud to say that I have a father who stuck around - I loomed so large in his heart that he was unable to give up on me, even when I probably deserved a swift kick in the pants. I'm lucky. Not enough people can claim their father's love in such an assured way.

I no longer believe that my father loves my sister more. In reality, I think my father sees more of himself in his strong-willed, brunette daughter. So he prays different things for her - that she would avoid his mistakes, follow his advice, and find the love and beauty that he's found in his own life. That I would more fully know a God who has loved me more than the father who loves me so well.